Forest Cage
by Horrendously Numb
Summary: The only thing worse than getting caught living on private property is getting caught by someone nice enough to make you feel bad about it. A hanvi story.
1. Chapter 1

He saw me immediately.

I know he did because he was looking anywhere but here, walking around searching for the noise I'd made but always keeping the tree I was crouched in, in the corner of his eye. It was almost polite, really.

Or at least it would be if I didn't think there was at least a possibility he was trying to lull me into some false sense of security before he took his gun out and tried to do me in. I know- I sound paranoid, even psychotic. But I can't rule it out.

And besides, from all I can gather he might just be the type- reasonably tall, well built, strolling around as if he clearly wasn't trespassing like I was. I couldn't make out anything else; I was a good 40 feet up and the sheer amount of leaves between us obscured his face. I did catch a glimpse of unnaturally dark hair, though, hair that would've gotten me spotted days ago by the guards that patrol these enormous grounds up on 439 East District, had I not hidden my own in a ratty green scarf I'd swiped when I first got snuck in.

He doesn't seem to be coming closer, nor going back inside, so I take this moment to close my eyes. I wince as they sting. Oh god, I must have kept them open a good 4 minutes. I release one cold hand from the branch I'm gripping and press it gently against my eyelids, trying to put everything into order in the systematic manner I'm so comfortable with. Systems mean order, order means solutions, solutions mean escape, and escape means I won't have to face off against anyone in my constantly hungry, exhausted state.

However, my ears stay pricked and I keep the tension in my body steady like a loaded crossbow. Just to be safe. I need active muscles to run and/or attack and I need immediate action.

Let's see now. Ran away. Saw nearby town. Was walking towards said town when came across angry hunter who thought I was whatever species of deer or antelope hang around here. Climbed precariously high fence that bordered seemingly endless expanse of meadows and forest with a few dozen guards walking around with very poor work ethic but very real guns. Have been living off little amounts of stolen food and water supplies, sleeping in trees.

Can't live like this forever, is my concluding thought. No shame in admitting you're spoiled, when you've lived 6 days in the ugly outdoors. My skin is dry, my lips are so cracked I can hardly move them, my hair is stringing together in the greasy ropes, there's a multitude of tiny cuts and splinters over my hands, neck and face, and every part of me is sore from living on branches of various amounts of sturdiness. Oh what I would do for a nice bath, even a bucket of hot water; you know, nothing makes you appreciate the smallest things like-

The crunching of leaves snaps me out of my wallowing and I slam my hand back onto the branch as I snap my eyes open. Oh god. Oh god he's almost directly below me. I wonder how much of me he can see. Not much, hopefully. There's not even much to see to begin with.

I don't mean that in the insecure damsel way. Dear god, no. Why spend so much effort trying to demean yourself in your own head when you could be making concise mental lists.

So here we go. A quick list of reasons this sweater clad strange man shouldn't be able to see me very much, to calm me while i ponder over my options at this point:

I'm small. Small and lean and so very easy to tuck away high in the air.

I'm dressed in dull colors. A full sleeved brown shirt and tan jeans. Practical brown boots that, while sturdy, were not my own and had in fact belonged to one of the guards cabins. They were huge, but not enough for someone to look up and wonder _hmm what are those enormous shoes doing 40 feet away from the ground._

Black hair. Long, too. But , as i mentioned, tucked away in a scruffy green scarf.

No jewellry

No glowing yellow eyes or other such eye catching feature

Not making. A single sound. I was barely even breathing.

So yes, by all accounts i should be overlooked. Overlooked and thus be allowed to stay in this forest come cage, keeping me safe and unknown.

Okay, I need to be rational. If he does live here, and thus have any kind of ownership claim on these acres upon acres of lush greenery, I can fit him into the rich, self-obsessed and thus unobservant category. I like categories. This one in particular means he's probably writing me off as some bird.

It's a slim chance, almost nonexistent, and I am fully aware of the fact as I try to cling to it. But I won't. What if he thinks I'm here to kill him. What if he thinks I'm a bird, the perfect bird to shoot and stuff and add to his taxidermy collection.

Oh, it's no use. I'm far too quick to panic, too quick to act on conclusions I've made in the heat of a moment.

Which is why before he has the chance to clear his throat and say something condescending, like "You know, I know you're up there." I already start slipping down from branch to branch, dropping to the ground with what I hope to be cat-like grace but ends up with me getting wobbly and having to drop to my hands and knees on some unforgiving stones a couple yards away from him. Thank heavens for thick pants.

I only give myself a moment to steel my shaking body, to put a firm end to the ragged breathing, before i force myself to stand and direct a standard steely glare his way. Oh no.

An itemized list of the pieces of information I'm gathering about this individual should go as follows:

He's tall. My word, he's tall. I'm so glad I'm far away enough from him that i don't have to crane my already sore neck.

His hair is very black. And his eyes. Its funny, I know eyes that look black are actually brown but his just don't. It's about 3 pm, the sun is up high, even in this October mountain weather. The black should be brown. It feels unnatural.

He really isn't that well built. In his yellow sweater and dark green pants, he's quite slim. No bulk, per se. That's good news for my fatigued state.

He's... He's… Pretty.

Aristocratic features, I mean. His face is all subtle angles and If i had to find a flaw, it'd be that his eyes are a little too bright, a little larger than you'd think.

All in all, he's unsettling. A perfect copy of a human being, some fancy 3d animated character come to life. And it doesn't help that he isn't speaking. He definitely knew i was there all along. He's looking at me, not at all shocked, waiting for me to speak. Well. might as well give him a show. After all, he hasn't shot me yet. Not that i can see a gun, but i suppose it's the principle of the matter.

"So." My voice is both creaky and squeaks from misuse. As i try to swallow, I think of possible second words that minimize the blows to the rapid vanishing of the remains of my dignity.


	2. Chapter 2

He could have helped me out, I'm sure.

It had been more than enough seconds to make this uncomfortable. My brain, while adept thinking a hundred wild scenarios a second, was so much slower at articulating words when actually in such a scenario. My options so far consisted of:

Threaten him.

Knock him to the ground and threaten him to boot.

Just plain knock him out. He'll wake up and think this was all some dream.

Tell him I'm leaving. I could always come back. Chain link fences are easy to climb, although I may need some food before I'm up for the task.

Run. Like hell. I'm fast, probably faster than someone who needs wears pastel yellow. This place is huge, and even with the guards on the lookout for me, I think I can outsmart people who suspect it's raccoons that have been stealing a consistent amount of food and supplies from them.

Hash it out. Calmly explain that I'm on the run and decided armed guards were a better enemy to deal with than the alternative.

Flirt. Play harmless, even ill and weakened. Uncomfortable as that is, it usually yields the quickest results. Bring his guard down and then act out any of options 1 through 5.

 _Okay, now, breathe_ , I tell myself. I run through the options keeping an eye on his face, his movements, his posture. He's definitely not threatened- shoulders down, feet shuffling slightly (glad I'm not the only one feeling awkward), one hand in his pants pocket and one running through the spiky hair that brushed past his neck. If I could, I'd run and not look back. Find a taller tree and get to the top.

But escape doesn't depend on Ol' Silent Night alone. The standard water bottle I manage to grab off the guards each day is 500ml, about a third of what i need to function well. I don't dare take more in case I get caught, in case they start wondering about it, ask each other and find a pattern, or even go on a drunken rampage against the "raccoon" that accidentally took one too many supplies.

This has left me slower, with annoying stabs of pain shooting up my side. If I ran, I'd be closer to collapse than escape. Same goes for fighting, I was coming to realize. Whatever speed and strength I have left has to be drawn out through adrenaline, something I just don't feel with this guy.

He must have gotten tired of waiting for me to explain myself, because he finally clears his throat.

"Well, I'll begin then." His voice is warm and gentle. Its lilting, and he enunciates words a little too carefully. He _is_ rich, then. That is a bona fide high class society accent right there. No one in the town I'm from even has that particular accent. Oh god, I'm looking at a lord, or worse, aren't I. He could have me executed in two words or less.

"Not to ask the obvious, cliche question in this situation, but," He continues, " What, exactly, are you doing inside a clearly labelled piece of private property?"

It takes me a few seconds to respond. In the back of my head I'm vaguely aware this is probably the slowest, most stilted conversation in the entire mountain range. Okay, need to focus on talking.

"I.. well… aren't you observant." I cringe as I hear my own raspy words. This is a terrible first impression. I'd meant to be polite, even throw in a scrap of charming in there. But sarcasm is my natural defence and apparently stronger the less time I spend indoors. I try to backtrack.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," I hold my hands up in apology, even going as far as to relax my eyebrows. I'm usually awful at that, too. I just hope i don't look constipated. "I didn't mean that. Please don't think I meant that. I was just.. lost here. I couldn't find my way out. So yes." There. The P word. Let's see him try to execute me after that.

He puts me at ease by cracking a small smile. I detect a hint of pity, certainly, but I can stand pity if it's pity versus death. Or at least, I can stand it to the point where I don't immediately want to lash out.

"You're lost." His voice sounds flat. I came up with that lie without thinking, it may not be airtight, I'm finding out.

"Horribly, horribly lost" I say, looking up at him innocently. Well, this is my blatant, poorly thought out lie, and I refuse to back down.

"And… you hadn't considered asking any of the numerous men walking around for directions?" God, I'm starting to dislike that smile. It's a little too smug. And that voice is starting to sounding a lot less warm, too.

"Well, I _would_ have considered it, had those men not been armed and aiming to kill." I say shortly. Like, most people, I don't appreciate having the holes in my story exposed.

"They are not trained to kill and you know it." He says dismissively, waving a hand in my direction. He was aristocracy, all right. Unnecessary hand gestures are the mark of fine breeding.

"A- all I know is they shoot s-squirrels for fun." I retort. Although that part is only technically true. They only did it once or twice when I was around, and they weren't exactly aiming to kill as much as aiming to shoo them away irresponsibly. My voice is shaking now. I suppose the chilly weather and measly meals are getting to me; the irrational indignation doesn't aid a steady voice in any case, either.

"But, you're not a squirrel" The smile is growing now. I want to vomit.

"I- I _know_ that!" I splutter. "Of course I know that. How would I possibly have not known that." This is hopeless. Not only does he have me riled up, but I'm tired, and hungry, and covered in an inch of dirt I'm worried isn't going to clean itself without taking a layer of skin with it. It's all severely impaired by wits.

Not to mention, I know the questions that'll be coming my way soon. _Why stay here so long, if you could climb in why not climb out, who are you, ugh, no._ I can't deal with that. The pain in my side is getting worse, my thoughts are cloudy, I can feel my heartbeat too strongly, too erratic.

As i keel over, I do it with purpose. The blurry vision may not be part of my plan, but it helps, as does the light shaking when I'm dropping down. My arms find themselves around me, hugging myself, trying to preserve some warmth. I curl up in the grass in a fetal position. He's kneeling beside me now, his shadow looms over me. As I stare at the strands of grass, at the dandelions interspersed between them, I wonder why I didn't hear any footsteps as he came my way.


	3. Chapter 3

What kind of self respecting noble calls people _'Miss'_ these days?

And yet, here he is, saying it over and over. At first, it sounds dull and fuzzy, but as I hear it getting louder, as if calling for help, I force myself to clear my head. No one should know I'm here. Word travels fast around the mountains, and the last thing I want is for people to get a whiff of the trail I've been concealing so well.

"Shut up, shut up, _shut up!_ " I manage to groan. My words slur a little, but they're coherent. I squint up at him with dulling vision. It's difficult, the light surrounding him is too bright. "Don't call anyone here, I'm fine."

He's looking a little bewildered now, but I can rest easy knowing he isn't calling out anymore. Or I could, if he didn't insist on carrying on this damned conversation.

" _Fine_." He repeats, his voice humorless, "You're shaking on the forest floor. You're shaking. You seem to be having trouble both speaking and opening your eyes properly. And you're fine."

That gets to me. Here I am, just trying to avoid personal questions and, now, maybe take a nap anywhere there isn't a tree. I've been putting so much effort just trying to survive, I've been through more in a day than he probably has in his whole, luxurious life. And here he is, telling _me_ how much I can take. Does he even know what a human's limits are. Does he have any idea how nice grass feels after days of wood and splinters. The nerve.

"Yes, _fine_." I mimic his sarcastic tone. "I'm awake, I'm conscious, I'm able to respond to your unnecessary comments, and so I'm fine, okay?"

"Not okay." He's trying to reason. As if he thinks he knows better. "Look, they won't shoot you, they won't hurt you. They'll take you to the infirmary in town. They'll take care of you there."

"No, you can't call them." My voice is getting shrill. I can't budge on this. I need to stop him. With a grunt and colossal effort I push my upper-body off the ground and grab onto his arms. I'm grateful he doesn't buckle under my weight. I thought he might. The image I've created of him is just a little bit insulting, if I'm being honest. I see this stranger as calm, gentle, soft spoken, and very likely to not be able to support anything north of 70 pounds. I'm glad I've exaggerated, for both our sakes. I didn't really look forward to falling back on the ground.

"What on earth else do you propose, then?" He asks, after a pause. I love it when dramatic actions do their job and flabbergast the person enough to end discussion on the debate at hand. It's a low blow, but my head really isn't clear enough for logical arguments right now.

"Just leave me here." Honestly, it should be obvious. "I'll find my way out, I'll be out of your hair, you'll get to the nearest tavern and drink away your memories, meet a nice barmaid, have a nice night, and no one'll be the wiser. Clean cut solution."

"You- you- you can't be serious!" He splutters. "Look at you, you could die on that spot!"

"Hun, you're being a bit dramatic there, don't you think?" I'd raise an eyebrow if I could. "I'm the absolute picture of partial health"

I hear him let out a low chuckle. Good. He was starting to get a little too worried compared to what I've been used to. I'd been hoping for apathy, not downright concern. I'm a bit surprised at myself, too. I don't usually joke around strangers, not even well meaning strangers.

"Listen to me," He says, "I have a cabin a few minutes walk away. I've been living there while I carry on some research. There's no one else there, you can-"

"Whoa, there, good Ser." My face flushes a bit, and I fix the best glare I can for someone who's still leaning on him for support. I make my voice harsher as I go along "I don't see how any situation I'm in could possibly make me subject to go along into your fancy cabin."

He turns a bit pink too, but ultimately snorts. It really gets to me how he won't take me seriously. Against the small voice in my head telling me it's childish, I start digging my nails into his forearms. At the very least I can ruin his sweater.

"Apologies, Miss, you misunderstand me," I can hear the lilt growing. He could at least have the decency to sound ashamed. I'm about ready to push myself off him and onto the sharp rocks next to us. "But I can't very well leave you here, and I wouldn't trust you to walk to the edge of the fence in your current state. Just, just come over, have a meal, grab a jacket, please."

"Why are you so eager for this to happen?" I refuse to let go of my suspicion until I receive a proper amount of disgust for the notion.

"Call it basic human kindness, Miss," He says, smiling again. So it _is_ the rich ones that have time to smile all the live long day.

"I didn't think the elite had any such quality amongst all the jewels and suits of armour."

"What makes you so sure I'm rich?" There's a lot of amusement I'm hearing from his end. I kind of want to strangle him a bit.

"Oh, come off it. I'm tired, not stupid."

"Could have fooled me"

"Excuse me?" My tone is icy.

"I… I didn't mean that. I really only want to help."

"Why?" He isn't helping my suspicion dissipate much. His eyes drift away from me a for a second as he seems to remember some memory or the other.

"Let's say, I have a soft spot for small, spunky survivors in the wilderness." He says with a knowing smile. It means nothing to me, to be honest, but it's a much better response than any of the creepy answers I'd been bracing for.

I'm actually starting to seriously consider his offer. I'd die for a good meal. Not to mention, my arms are getting pretty tired in this godforsaken damsel-esque position.

"Alright, sure, why not." I say, "So long as you tell no one I exist, and I can leave at any time."

"Mum's the word, Miss," He seems happy. I'm wondering if it's the appropriate amount of happy when he puts on a slightly uncomfortable expression, and continues, "Would you, well, um, like me to… carry you?"

It's my turn to smile now; he's more awkward than he lets on.

"While that is chivalrous, and might even be genuinely nice, I can support myself just fine." I've always had a problem with people trying to carry me. It makes me feel like such an invalid, it's patronizing at best. Of course, now I have to stand up and walk several hundred seconds towards what is either a scholarly cabin, or terrifying torture chamber. As I gather my strength, I'm hoping against hope for the former.


End file.
